Unfinished Tales
by SmurfKiller
Summary: [FIN] Four unfinished tales of the Starcraft Universe. Please read introduction for more information.
1. Introduction

_Unfinished Tales_

By: Smurfkiller

Introduction

Hey again. It's been a long time since I've written Starcraft fanfiction, probably more than two or three years. Older readers may remember my first story, _Starcraft: Band of Brothers_. In that time, between juggling some Final Fantasy fanfiction and _Starcraft:_ _Chimaera_, I thought of and wrote some minor tales set in the Starcraft universe.

This collection of five unfinished tales represent the other stuff I was working on during my Starcraft fanfiction years. They are of varying quality, and many have not been completed to the point of being interesting, but each had an ending I hoped that would be dramatic, but, in the end, stayed in my head.

I have decided that since these are unfinished tales, any fanfiction author wanting or willing to write endings can, as long as the credit me for my share of the story. Please private message or e-mail me your intention of finishing one or more of these stories, and if possible, send me the finished product.

If get inspired by one of these stories and write one with a similar plot _but not copied word for word or event to event_, it doesn't have to be credited to me.

As always, enjoy, and comments are appreciated.

Smurfkiller

11/20/06


	2. Descriptions

"The Patrol"

They are four.

Four marines, standing, their backs to a wall in this urban hell, visors up, faces dark and grimy, bodies, wary and alert.

The wall, which provides them the scant protection they think they have, is a relic of the landscape. Graffiti marks it, showing that it was once one of the darker sections of the city. The mosaics are washed away, not by liquid, but by the scarring of a thousand bullets, holes uglier than the obscene words themselves, holes that show where a man was killed, where his blood splattered, where his visceral were left. But the marines stand there, the wall covered with bullet holes, remnants of graffiti, and dried blood, thinking of the protection it gives them.

They are four.

The fumes of unwashed men, an odor that is bearable compared to the other odors in the city. They stand there, knowing the danger of sitting in a landscape raped of humanity. To the left, face unvisible, is the Leader. He is looking beyond the wall, gun up, exosuit muscles tense, looking at the next cover. Four marines, stationary, are dead in a city like this, sitting ducks for a marksman or tank blast.

The Leader knows this, and though his face is not visible, the tension shown in his mechanical features are. His suit is tense, twisted around, as he looks away at the ruined landscape behind them, looking for the next cover. A man who does not move in the city is a dead man. The Leader knows this, as his mechanical fingers, the tips of his exosuit, are tightly wrapped around his rifle.

"Fade Away"

The medic cradles the tenderfoot in her arms.

She is young; her armor is not. Clearly, her shoulderplates show the markings of a medic, a person saving lives. The red cross does not make her invunerable, and there, in the center of the red cross, a hole, a kiss from a bullet

* * *

_Comments:_

This was suppose to be a literary exercise of description. In fact, the filename is called "Descriptions." I tried to bring emotions of war to life by describing them in such as way to make these marines and medics feel real. It was particularly difficult, and I've too lazy to finish it off. Enjoy.


	3. Silence

Silence

By: Smurfkiller

_Author's Note: Hopefully, this is original for all of you tired of marines/Zerg fictions, although I mean no offense to those writers. "Chaparas" are halfway in-between a full chapter and a single paragraph. Most of these chaparas are short, usually a paragraph or two long. _

_Disclaimer: Blizzard owns Starcraft, the Everlasting Real-Time Strategy Game everyone knows by heart._

Chapara 1

I live in a world of silence.

No, I'm not deaf. I'm blind. Goddamn, you think they could cure a person born blind in this century, with all the inventions we've made in innovative ways to kill people with lasers and nukes. But no. That's all the technology humankind has invented. Weapons; to maim. While the impaired must still struggle through life.

How do I live in a world of silence, when I can hear? It's quite simple. How can I describe an everyday, ordinary object?

Take a piece of paper. I can feel it with my hands. I can listen to a friend describe it.

It's thin. That word was shown to me through me hands. I could not learn it through reading or looking it up in a dictionary.

The edges are sharp, the texture smooth. Those words too, I _feel_, not see.

The color- white? How can I know what white looks like, when I see is darkness? Get it? Silence. Pure, goddamn silence, because everything others can see, others can describe, I cannot. Silence.

I am one of the lucky ones, lucky to be born with a defect, born on the unfortunate planet of Chau Sara to a fortunate family of wealthy industrialists. They gave me the best care any one in this Sector could afford, but they couldn't give me my sight. Instead, they gave my oldest brother their company, my little sister a wealthy husband, and me, the captain of my own ship, the _S.S. Stargazer._

Life's full of mockeries. Stargazer. What I would give for one look at my beautiful ship, to see it's jagged wings and hot thrumming heat of the engines, of it's beautiful cold blue color. All that I cannot see, cannot comprehend, only say.

Cynics like me are often hated for their pessimistic nature. I, though, am not a cynic. I'm a realist, of course, aware of how this fucking universe works. At least, I though I knew how the universe worked. Zerg changed that.

Chapara 2

Before I began, you might be wondering how I learned to write without sight. It's hard for a blind person to write. Luckily for me, I've memorized the keys on a keyboard like a musician does with the keys on a piano (I'm learning how to do that too).

It was on the _Stargazer_, on a freight run from Brontes to Chau Sara via Mar Sara, that news struck that the whole goddamn planet of Chau Sara was under a Confed Lockdown.

I was in my cabin, consulting a three-dimensional star chart, feeling the bumped space lines running across the vast sector, wondering which way was the quickest to get my delivery of high-grade depeleted uranium shells for the Confederate Marine Corp. I ran a lot of military freight those days, mostly for Duke's ALPHA Squadron, the "Blood Hawks," who made their base of operations right in the smack-dab capital of Sara.

Military freight was often needed these days, with the Feds on a three-front war. Umoja, that bastard neutral government, was harboring the terrorist Sons of Korhal group, and so the Feds responded with a fleet that was regularly bombarding the world of Umoja. The SoK too, was active, blasting away at backwater outposts like Chau Sara, which was why Duke and his whole goddamn Alpha squadron was there. And finally, some aliens were starting to appear too, nicknamed, like an appropriate alien race, "Zerg."

* * *

_Comments:_

I was planning to have a nice little run in with a hydralisk at the end with the protagonist on his ship, and make more appreciative of his remaining senses by rendering him blind and deaf due to a blow by the hydralisk's blade.


	4. Viewpoint

Starcraft: Viewpoint

By: Smurf

_Author's Note: Viewpoint isn't a traditional story. It's more of an anthology, a collection of short, action-based stories that are set in the Starcraft universe. They are, for the most part, in chronological order, with stories that concern the Starcraft campaign. They are given to present larger understanding of the characters of the Starcraft universe, to enhance the reader's knowledge of the whole extent to Starcraft. The installments of these tales give multiple perspectives, from a marine to commodore, from a Protoss Zealot to the Overmind itself. Each chapter is present as an installment, with one, specific character. _

_Disclaimer: Starcraft, of course, belongs to the wonderful company called Blizzard, which has had me hooked to this game for five years. And it's still going on. Sad, demoralizing life, isn't it?_

Installment I: The Overmind

It had already begun, before this race knew what was truly happening.

The _homo sapiens _on the world they called _Chau Sara_ captured a scout from my broods. The little, ferocious, four-legged Zz'gashi dune runner squirmed as it felt the feral bite of the hunter's trap. It too, was feral, but its potential as a dangerous killer was unrecognized by the human who released it. Moments passed, almost an eternity for the male, as the dune runner expertly sliced the abdomen open, spilling fluids and organs.

It had already begun.

As my living fleet stands, watching, and waiting, and sensing for the ripe time to launch an attack, my minions have already begun the infiltration. Agents go in the worlds that this...Humanity has infested, and infest these humans themselves. My minions infest the ground, the air, and earth beneath the ground...until all has been turned into a solid carpet of nourishment for my troops.

Already they scream. Humans, males and females, young and old, scream as they are embraced into my fleet, their bodies devoured by a growth nutrient, their minds controlled by my Cerebrates, their souls controlled by me alone. For I am their god.

They are only the beginning. War with humans will only spread the conflict, to make sure that the Firstborn will be involved. There is no other goal than to assimilate the powerful Protoss into my broods, into the Horde. The humans are only a footnote to war against my creators' other species. But the humans will make useful slaves in this war, for they too, have a infant psionic ability.

I shift my senses to a lone dune runner scout on the brown world of Chau Sara. It sees a human structure, round and flat on the ugly landscape. The Overlord overseeing command of the Zz'gashi relays the information to its commanding Cerebrate, which relays the information to me. See? See the efficiency of the Horde? For though my Cerebrates control their Overlords, which in turn controls other members of the brood, it is I: the entity, the brain, and mind and spirit of the Horde that controls all. For that was what the Wanderers wanted: the perfect race, engineered to adapt, control, conquer. Their perfection was their downfall, their failure. But not mine.

The runner advances, cautiously at the grey, metal structure, as light filters from inside. With a shriek my minion enters, as my senses direct it. There four male humans, clad in metal, laugh and drink merrily from devices which I have never seen before. It is their reliance on other elements of their system that will be Humanity's downfall. For the runner is engineered and adapted to have tough, hard carapace, and razor teeth that cut to the bone, while these _Sapiens_ rely on metal to destroy life. Relies on metal to protect themselves from the sweet searing of bone from flesh. They depend on beverages to make them festive. My Zz'gashi needs none of these. It has only me to please, to obey.

Slowly, my runner tears each man apart, with relish that enlightens me. Screams and shrieks fill the structure, as the males are ripped, haplessly, limb to limb.

The humans will die. All will die, or be assimilated into my great race. As only the Protoss are left to combat me, they too, like the humans, shall be slowly altered to fit the Horde's creations of soldiers...

...but what then, what is there to do when all have been assimilated, all that was once there brought into the fold of the Horde? It is a question that brings doubt and uncertainty to me. For my bloodthirstiness will never truly be quenched. What then, when all is conquered and destroyed?

But it has already begun.

Installment II: Medical Officer

It happens, every goddamn few months.

Some goddamn marine gets his hands on some _da-jiu_, a strong, hick-brew popular on this goddamn backwater world. He and his other buddies from neural resocialization are stationed at one of the perimeter bunkers for the night, and they decide to get drunk. Not too much, at first. Just a little giggly and sheepish. Then more of the damn beverage goes down their throats. Sometimes, one of the idiots throws a "pineapple" grenade, just to see if it works. The only thing is, he can't see the opening out of the bunker as he tries to lob the grenade. It bounces off a wall, and into the lap of one drunk dumbass. A few seconds later, the four are nothing but a pile of flesh. Or sometimes, they get trigger-happy and start shooting everything up, including their own buddies.

Whatever it is, the next morning, when HQ tries to check in, all they hear is static. It doesn't take them long to figure out what's wrong, and they send out me to clean up the mess.

So when HQ ordered my team and I to clean up four "accident" casualties in bunker N-6, I knew what had happened. Or so I thought.

Who am I? I am a medical officer of the 51st Medical Unit, Alpha Squadron, stationed in Perimeter Base 5, Chau Sara. My job is to treat the wounded delivered into the medical quarters of the base. But most of the time, my only medical work is retrieving bodies and figuring out how they died.

My name? That's not important. What _is_ important is what the hell I'm doing at this goddamn, no good, backwater planet. Five years ago, I was on Tarsonis, a medical officer serving the upper cadres of the Confederate Marine Corp. Five years ago, since, by fate, I indirectly caused to poisoning of a Confederate General. Five years ago, due to the corruptness of the Feds that they ordered me to this hellhole. Five years ago.

Five minutes later, after HQ gave me the call, I was sitting in the back of an armored hover transport with four other members of my team. It was a fifteen minute drive to the bunker, and looking, for fifteen minutes, at the badlands of Sara brings me into a depressing despair. Nothing was here on this goddamn rock. Nothing but the bones of conscripts and dinosaurs, and the unending, bald hills that stretch out for miles, tan colored like hundreds of dung droppings. This is my prison. My grave.

"We're here sir," a marine in the front said. Two marines were here to "guard" us against anything hostile, though they are meant to serve as our executioners if we try to escape. We are not as idiotic as neural-resocialized marines. The Feds know they cannot brainwash the doctors of their armed forces without doing traumatic, uncurable injuries to our brains. So we are guarded by the brainwashed, the controlled.

The bunkers were another unnecessary precaution. No one had ever attacked the base for years, even though it was one of the Rim Worlds of the Confederate Sector. No Sons of Korhal, no stray pirates, nothing. But the government wanted to keep the civilian population under its wraps, and to do this was make sure the civilians had nothing to fear, for them to feel the fog of security. The mere _psychological_ effect of feeling safe brought comforts to the civilian population. But fog, as I was soon to find out, was disappearing. And the security disappears as well.

I realized I was staring at the visor of the marine who had told me of the arrival to the bunker. I nodded. "Alright private. Why don't you check out the bunker, while we get our gear ready?" He nods his head, like a zombie in a trance. Total control, that's what the Feds rely on. It's all bullshit. Bullshit...

My men and I grab our equipment out of the back of the vehicle. We brought everything we thought we needed: plasma, instruments, drugs, etc. But all we really need was a body bag. Only one. The parts would be sorted later.

"How do you think they died this time?" the medical corpsman asked, a young man of nineteen. Grabbing a body bag, I stared at him. "How else?" Turning around, I looked at the marine, peering cautiously into the bunker.

"_Well_? Where are the bodies?" I say, already annoyed at the marine staring inside the bunker. He did not look at me, as his helmet hid his features. All I saw was the cold, sterile visor of a zombie. But his voice was filled with surprising emotion.

"Everywhere," he replied, with a shock unfitting to his sterile, tough image. He takes a step make, then lifts up his visor. Inside, a pudgy, flat nosed man looks at me, a cigar dangling from the edge of his mouth. A rush of vomit comes out, plastering his suit with his remains of slimy eggs and bacon. More vomit explodes as he bends over.

Curiously, I step inside, wondering what carnage to be conjured for even a diehard marine to puke. I flip on my flashlight, unable to adjust to the dark interior. But before I could register the bloodshed and gore, a hand firmly turns me around, as another cold, metallic grip takes away my light.

"What the-"

"_Yes, _Officer?"

I was staring into the faceless feature of teal uniformed marine; a member of the Cerebus Squadron, one of the most clandestine of the Feds. Even more so than the main intelligence wing, Nova. They were the ones who directly reported to Confed High Command, the ones who had carried out the brutal massacres of civilians on Korhal, and the death of Angus Mengsk, the first rebel that inflamed the whole Confed security system.

The man I was looking at was a Colonel. Young and arrogant, by his tone of voice. I stared back into the liquid-like black visor, reflecting Chau Sara's sun on its shiny exterior.

"Nothing, sir. When did you and your men come in?"

"Only a few moments ago," the man said, pointing to the hovering dropship that was outfitted with ultra-quiet repulsors so landing the ship would be discreet and stealthy. _Hell, why didn't my men tell me?_

"Introduce yourself, officer." The man's voice bore straight into my brain, his tone bored and overpowering.

"Sir yes sir!" I drew myself to my full height, saluting, mocking millions of brainwashed marines that died for this damn Confederacy. "Alpha Squadron, 1st Medical Squadron, sir!"

The colonel nodded. "Cerebus Squadron, 21st Recon Unit. He tilted his head back to the sky. We recently arrived from Tarsonis."

I looked, watching as a dropship lift off in the skies of Chau Sara. _How the hell did it get here so silently?_

"Your men need to not bother with this mess, officer, Cerebus will take over from here."

He nudged me aside.

Installment III: Dropship Officer


	5. Frost

Frost

By: Smurfkiller

_Author's Note: All stories have one of three conflicts present: Man vs Man, Man vs Self, and Man vs Nature. This novel has all three: the Directorate vs Dominion, Man vs Instinct, and Man vs Winter. Inspired by the short story "To Build a Fire" by Jack London, I offer this story to the Starcraft Universe._

_Disclaimer: Starcraft and all its associated characters and organizations do not belong to me but to Blizzard._

-1-

There are some places in the universe where man looks to the top and say: "That is the peak I must conquer."

And some of these places are unconquerable, for no matter how much we rule from blood and steel, Nature's wrath will always effect us. For my company, Frost, that place we had to conquer was Soule's Peak.

But if there is one thing all the forces of Nature cannot conquer, it is the instincts and internal powers of men's hearts. For who would live under a sunless planet, a world covered in a great blanket of snow that was immortal, endlessly strangling the mountain? Only human nature, the nature of our greed, would explain this.

The city of Boralis lay between two daggers of the Atlantian Range, Soule's Peak and Whitehead. They loomed to the back of the city, one side of the great icy metropolis unconquerable by its peaks, the other side surrounded by a field of snowy white while a robust wall lined with a thick, NeoSteel wall protecting its inhabitants from fear of war.

It was here that humans, five hundred thousand Dominion citizens, lived for their greed, no matter how many degrees centigrade the planet was.

Chance was not the reason why the planet Braxis was so cold. Dominion Armada scientists, when surveying the planet, concluded the battering of a thousand comets from fringes of Koprulu space had resulted in the formation of a permanent "Ice Cap" that covered all of the planet a few million years ago. It also helped that the nearest solar system was only a few billion spacial miles away.

Before the massive bombardment of comets, the planet had been a tropical paradise, fueling the growth of Vespene geysers that littered the landscape. But these valuable commodities were hidden away under a sudden torrent of snow.

Though deemed uninhabitable by Confed scientists, Dominion science vessels tracked gaseous anomalies under the ice, and a state-owned drilling company was sent. The announcement of the discovery of massive amounts of geysers lead a few million greedy souls to venture forth, and build the fortress-city of Boralis while extracting the gas, the principal source for unprocessed Vespene for the Dominion Armada and the Elite Guards.

This factor was the reason for why the Directorate attacked my planet.

The total force of UED troops was startling: five hundred thousand men faced our walls, a plain of bobbling black helmeted heads with snowy white armor. Stukov, the vice-admiral of the United Earth Directorate Expeditionary Fleet (UEDEF), assembled a supporting division of one thousand tanks and Goliath armored walkers, as well as artillery. But his main force would be infantry, which would attack the Plains of Snow, outside the city walls, break through, crossing the river and battering the walls.

My company, Frost, was specialized in cold combat warfare. We were part of the fifty thousand man regular garrison the Dominion left in the city, supported by another one hundred and fifty thousand militiamen. Desperately outnumbered, the only advantage we had was our knowledge of the terrain and our walls. We had the Plains of Snow pre-sighted, with every inch of snowy ground marked by an artillery battery or siege tank. Most of our regulars were equipped with specialized CMC-400C armor, which gave extra protection against the -80 degree centrigrade average temperature, as well as preventing our gun from freezing up in weather through the heat cord that attached the gun to our suit. Frost was also prevented on our suits and boots to give an extra sense of security, so not to slip on the icy grounds.

But our confidence waned as the Dominion Armada, laden with reinforcements and equipment, was fended off by the massive UED fleet. And their Wraiths virtually owned the skies, cutting off any escape and bombarding our city. We were, as the old saying put it, "between a rock and a hard place." One side of the city had thousands of UED infantry waiting, while the other had the impenetrable mountains. The only escape was death.

Their first attack met with failure. The first wave of infantry completely disintegrated as our surviving artillery bombarded the Plains, providing a fresh new look for the snowy white grounds. They were now covered in crimson red.

Our men stood on the over side of the River Degras, watching and waiting as their troops charged.

Mother Nature proved to be our protector that day, as the Goliaths, well oiled and kept in the storage sheds of the Directorate base, froze upon impact with the wintry wastes. Their steel appendages and plexiglass cockpits cracked under the strain of Nature's unending forces, while their pilots were blown apart a steady stream of shells.

Directorate troops shared the same fate, with the dead littering the ground with a scant wound. Their armor, though similar to ours, was bitterly unprepared for such harsh conditions. Once bullets and shrapnel penetrated on their armor, it created a gaping wound, exposing flesh to the elements. Hypothermia immediately set in, as tissue and cells frozen upon contact with that day's fierce wind, mixed with biting snow. There can be no protection from Nature after a marine's armored shell was broken. As they writhed on the ground, we watched- silently, a formation of red standing starkly from the white. On the other side of the river, with only one bridge connecting the two, blood dyed the snowy Plains, diluting their color to a light, slushy substance.

The majority of the wounded UED troops were carried back by their medics, who differed greatly in ours and were more skilled. We heard from the intelligence reports afterwards that the wounded troops were soon-to-be amputees, with so many cases of frostbite and hands, feet, ears that, once exposed to the cold, did not work properly.

There is no pain when facing Nature's raging elements. Only a comforting release of death. That is how the thousands of Directorate troops met their fate on our victory. Not from a stray bullet or exploding shell, but from the untimely death to the wind. For all the things in the godforsaken place, the fiery blasts of cold wind would destroy our enemy. And it would eventually spell my company's doom as well.

Eventually, they retreated, their C-14 rifles frozen in their hands, their lethal, slim shapes encased in a gross mixture of blood, sweat, and snow. Even sweating was dangerous for the troops; for in these temperatures, their sweat would easily turn into droplets of ice on their skin. Everything in this planet was a Hell frozen over, yet men fought and died for almost nothing save a unmarked spot in the frozen Plains.

Nature is not only our only friend and enemy. Human Nature is both our Guardian and our Adversary. As we would soon find out, this Nature would lead to betrayal.

After our first successful defense of our world, Dominion commanders decided on focusing on a counter-attack on the weakened Directorate forces. They had suffered, by our best estimate, a total of one hundred and fifty thousand casualties, or almost all of the total forces garrisoned in Boralis. Our commander's plan was to strip bare the outlying redoubts protecting a narrow valley that lead to the back of our city and focus our forces for a massive attack on the Directorate base. But this plan never materialized.

The Confederate Remnant Forces, who had scouted and infiltrated the city before, had allied with the Directorate under the leadership of a man, a conundrum in our intelligence, who called himself Samir Duran.

Armed with vital intelligence, he told Stukov about our bare defenses in the valley canyon, which could be assaulted with a massive armored column. The vice-admiral immediately equipped his remaining tanks with anti-freeze and other counter-measures for protecting them in the weather. Massing them, the armored spearhead broke through, well inside and to the only weak spot in the city walls, to the rear of the city. Following them were massive infantry columns that blended into the snow and snowstorms that were growing in severity.

Dominion troops, caught completely by surprise by the sudden blitz, surrendered, though isolated pockets like my company held out. But we were soon ordered to HQ, where the orders were given for our evacuation.

It is here our real challenges began.

-2-

Though an introduction to the reader is sometimes necessary to complete the picture of the protagonist, I am not the protagonist. I am the struggler, who, like all humans, must overcome external and internal demons to survive. I am also only a soldier who needs not to be named for any reason. All the reader needs to know is that I am a private of the Frost Company, 4th Guards Division, of the Dominion Elite Guards. My ID is 245XDE3456J9. My name is representative of the millions of the faceless soldiers. Refer me as John Doe.

As the Directorate stormed Braxis' biggest planet, other smaller cities to the north would be under the domination of Earth's control soon. F-Company, which I am a part of, was part of an HQ battalion keeping guard under communications, which was currently under frequency jamming of the UED. All communications to the cities of Ora and Nueva Esperanza were shut down, as the UED fleet had destroyed orbiting satellites and jammed all frequencies flowing in and out of our city. The Directorate air fleet had essentially quarantined the whole planet the way the Feds had done to Chau Sara. It is bitter and cliched, but it was the beginning of the end.

Word of the impending disaster of Braxis _had _to get out, or the UED would be in control of all of the planet in weeks. So when they sent for my company CO, Lieutenant Alyxis Benyard, I had the sense that our destination lead over the mountains.

I was right.

Remnants of the shattered HQ ordered my company, of the finest, winter-trained Division, to get the word out via Atlantian Range to the two cities of the UED invasion. Our objective would be to scale Soule's Peak, going over it, to bring message. Our secondary objective was symbolistic: it would increase morale of our own ranks with the daring escape up the peak, and decrease our enemy's morale.

Given these almost impossible orders, Benyard saluted to the General of the Dominion Forces, armored hands clenched in a fist, and bowing. His message was simple. "Frost will not fail."

Like hounds on the trail, we were lead through the underground railway network, where a technician opened the steel framed for our one-hundred and twenty man company. A blast of wintry air and snow greeted us, as the blizzard that would be our cover blew overhead. And almost like a doorstep, Soule's Peak loomed, five thousand meters of sheer rock and ice.

Benyard was the first to go. He motioned with his rifle, and stepped outside, the wintry blasts of air trying to propel him back in. Two by two, my robotic-looking company, round shoulders and guns held high, went up the narrow path. Our heating systems inside our suits kept us warm and snuggled at a reasonable temperature, while sensors on the armored palms of our hands told us if the gun was freezing up.

The mountain itself was an enigma, one wondrous and awe-inspiring site that was discovered by Arhelm Soule, one of the first widely held adventurer-explorers of our sector. His failure to climb it led to the thought that a city built upon the footsteps of the mountain would resist any attack. But no one had scaled the spires of the massive peak, and even helicopters and aircraft had failed to go over it because of the unrelenting harsh weather.

We were only a few hundred meters up when we heard gunfire coming from the top of the mountain. _The top!_ Safeties click off as our men looked up, at the peak.

"Hold, hold team." Intercom static filled every helmet, as the calm, commanding voice of Benyard ordered us not to fire.

"All y'all better have everything goddamn thing shut down, else Directorate electronics are going to locate our position."

The new voice, superficially cool and idiotic, was from Specialist Robert Jell, the second in command.

A chorus of "yes sirs" complied, including me. The battery pacs that made our suits operational lasted only eight hours if all systems were functioning, but with everything, except our heating and intercom shut down, it would last an additional sixty-four.

"Move it boys, it's just the wind. Directorate probably fired from down there, but the damn wind picked it up and carried it to our receptors."

Then, like a crack, one of the men on the rear screamed, blood spurting from a new wound on his right thigh. I was near the middle of the long, line of troops, and I could only make out dim outlines of snowy clad Directorate troops firing at our rear.

_How the hell did they get up here so fast?!_

But there was no time to think. Benyard stopped, going to the back of the column, his men slowly following them on the mountain's narrow pass.

"Grenades!"

Automatically, our minds numb from the scream, reached inside a small compartment in the left armored biceps of our suits. Three grenades, pine-apple shaped, were stored, and as I grabbed one of them, intent on pushing "the little red button" on the side, explosions knocked me off my feet, and into the fresh powder.

_Hell, what's Benyard trying to do? He's going to bring the fucking mountain down with the troops!_


End file.
